


Under This Unbreakable Flag

by Kemmasandi



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe, Mechpreg, Other, Post-War, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has come a very long way from where it was when Megatron was young.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under This Unbreakable Flag

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Under This Unbreakable Flag  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Continuity:** Transformers: Prime [Post-War AU]  
>  **Characters:** Megatron, Optimus Prime, OC [Phoebus]  
>  **Pairings:** Megatron/Optimus Prime  
>  **Content Notes:** Past mechpreg, sticky sex, headcanons ahoy, lots of introspection, Kem attempting to hint at a complex backstory in as few words as possible...
> 
> Kidfic for the ages. Sort of. I have a MegOP fanbaby for every situation and purpose – meet Phoebus. He is a cutie and I need to write about him and his strange little family more often.
> 
> Also, smut. It's been far too long since I wrote MegOP. :B

…

_but now, there is nothing left to fear_

…

UNDER THIS UNBREAKABLE FLAG

 

Megatron watched the refugee ship come into land from the top of the old Observatories. It was an old tanker, and had clearly seen better days. The pilot shuttles darted insectlike around the flanks of the old beast, guiding it down to the makeshift spaceport on the outskirts of New Iacon.

One engine backfired with a bang Megatron heard from several leagues distant. The ship yawed to one side, narrowly missing the pilot vessel. Megatron got to his feet, but the tanker's pilot regained control after an anxious moment. It continued on its slow descent, and soon disappeared out of sight among the mountains of ancient rubble that dotted the Boreal Plains.

Megatron spiraled his fans wide and let out a hiss of air. The warmth from his internal mechanisms condensed into white mist as it hit the freezing polar air.

He approached the edge of the mountaintop. The plains spread out before him, glittering with permafrost.

Once the most exclusive of the Imperial capital's high-decile districts, the Observatories these days were a mess of broken city and the detritus of a war hard-fought. The affluent beauty of the old capital was a thing of the long-distant past. Megatron had made sure of that, the last time he had visited Iacon.

The ground underneath the Observatories remained. The tabletop mountains rose high above the ruins, glimmering here and there with veins of energon. The rail links to the old city center had long since been destroyed, although Optimus had mentioned plans to extend the new system up onto the Lunar Observatory, ahead of a mine to get at the energon in the mountain.

For now, flight was the only way up. But from the top, a keen-opticked observer could keep watch over the entire cratered expanse of the Boreal Plains.

Now, ten years after the end of the war, New Iacon was rising from the rubble. It did so _slowly_ – although materials were plentiful, labourers were in short supply and mecha skilled in the work of construction even more so. Optimus had set up a rota some years ago under which everyone resident in the settlement did a share of the work, and the system seemed to work. Every other chord a new building took its place on the sidewalk.

Thus, little by little, their world expanded.

Down under the observatories, the ever-growing circle of fresh new steel glimmered under the pale sun. The vorn marched onward toward winter, the daylight weakening. Soon the sun would disappear from the sky entirely.

Optimus hoped to have the first layer of the hive done by then. It would be small and conservative, a covered plaza ringed by the offices of the joint provisional government and the storage depots, a place to shelter out of the cold while snow blanketed the landscape outside.

A cruel new world they lived in. It suited Megatron just fine – but, perhaps, not as well as it might have a mere few years ago.

His internal comms crackled to life.

“'Asa!” said a small voice.

Megatron smiled indulgently. “Yes, Phoebus?”

Rapid binary chattering transmitted across the line. There was a noise in the background – Megatron fancied it was Optimus, reminding their son to use his language modules – and the binary coalesced into inexpert Austral. “You 'Asa say—said—go take me cah—cah-da-mee?”

Megatron checked his chronometer. “I did, didn't I?”

Emphatic chirping from down the line.

“Well, then.” Megatron fed energon to his flight engines, warming up his turbines. “I had better come find you.”

“In 'ama Opi office now,” said Phoebus. Among other things, he hadn't gotten the hang of possessives yet.

To be fair, he was less than a lunar cycle old. Three years, by the humans' units of time.

“Then I will meet you there,” Megatron said.

He cut the line as soon as Phoebus had chirped his goodbyes – _never_ before; the huge tears of fright that had produced the one time he let habit get the better of him had taught him the value of a soft touch – and threw himself forward off the cliff.

For a moment he was falling; and then the reflex movement of his T-cog kicked in and he slid smoothly into flight. He cut through the high-altitude winds, ice forming on his wingtips, and swooped down around the flank of the cliff and into the streets of New Iacon.

He landed heavily in the middle of the road. Something pinged inside his knee. He flexed the joint experimentally; it stung a bit, and then the pain receded. He thought ruefully that he wasn't as young as he used to be, and started on the short walk into town.

* * *

The pride of New Iacon was its first-vorn Academy.

This was the one relic of the old system that Megatron had not objected to. It had been one of the first building projects of the new town, begun in that shaky first year after the signing of the treaty that ended the war.

In the scramble to provide for the first wave of newsparks to fly out of the revitalised Well of All Sparks, the Academy's builders had foregone comfort for functionality. Since the new Academy was to count those newsparks among its students, it had been built large enugh to accommodate full-sized cold-construct frames. There had been twelve in the first wave, and twenty-six in the one to follow. The single-room construction was beginning to outgrow its humble beginnings.

Megatron let Phoebus lead the way into the building. Since he had started to walk, he had wanted to walk _everywhere_ under the power of his own two feet. He complained bitterly if he was picked up or made to ride on somebody's back. It was much easier to simply let him walk – so long as one kept a sharp optic on him to make sure that he went where he was supposed to be going.

Inside, the Academy was a large single classroom with a vaulted ceiling and a teacher's office at the rear. Windows lined both sides of the room, covered with slatted shutters to shield against the weather. They were open today, and sunlight streamed in through the glass. Three sparklings played in the sunshine, watched by a curious newbuild.

The teacher, a slightly-built light standard, emerged from the office. He glanced around the classroom, and made a visible double-take when he saw Megatron, though he hid it well. There was a recently-painted patch on his shoulder that had once borne an Autobot badge, if Megatron was any judge; the former Autobots as a whole tended to be extremely wary of him.

That was when they weren't decrying him as a homicidal warlord.

(Warlord? Used to be; he'd give them that, but grudgingly. Homicidal? Hmm. Did they _want_ him to be?)

The teacher – one of a group of four former members of both factions, who took turns teaching so that neither side's version of events would be given precedence above the other's – called his class to order. Phoebus turned to Megatron and gave his leg a hug, that being the highest on his sire that he could reach on his own. Then he obeyed the teacher's call and went to the mat at the front of the room, paying attention with the strict zeal of the newly sparked.

Megatron left the room, but didn't go far. He sat down on the doorstep outside, listening to the chatter that floated out of the half-open shutters.

He had never had the opportunity to get a formal education. His had all come from, as the human William Fowler was apt to say, the school of hard knocks. It had made him what he was, for better or for worse. Additional education had come too late to shape him into a person that might have chosen a different path.

This he regretted; although, he suspected, not for the same reasons that others might demand of him.

The breeze drove tiny flakes of ice out of the sky, glittering whirls blinking in and out of visibility. It wasn't snow – this was what you got when it was too cold to snow. All the wet had already been precipitated out of the sky.

High above him, workers laboured on the plaza roof.

Megatron watched them slowly bridge the gap between the two halves of the plaza, silhouetted against the pale sky. His thoughts wandered, memories creeping out between the broken coding of ancient firewalls.

He had been brought online some eight and a half million years ago. Bought and sold for ten thousand shanix, he had been given little more than a job description, and sent to work in the mines of Southern Cybertron scant hours after. He had been one of a batch of thousands commissioned by a southern mining company to staff a new mine in the Iron Ridge. Training had been laughingly known as 'on-the-job'. For the first twenty-eight thousand vorn of his life, he had answered to a glyph and number combination rather than a name – D-16.

He had thought he was lucky at first. He had a job, after all, and even though it was dangerous and paid literally nothing after the company took the cost of his housing and fueling out of what was left after he had paid for his creation debt, it had meant that he had had energon, and somewhere to go at night. He had known that not everybody had this. It had been a thing to be thankful for.

Then, one day, he had wondered _why_ not everybody had basic shelter and sustenance.

It had seemed like a simple question at first. But the question had stayed in his mind throughout his work shift – and then the one after, and the one after _that_.

It wasn't that he hadn't been able to come up with answers. Anyone who thought they were anyone had had an opinion on the question. Megatron had had answers queueing up in his higher thought protocols as soon as he'd thought of it.

It was simply that as he looked at them, he had realised time and time again that none of them were good enough.

At this point, if he were making a speech, he might have said that the realisation was a revelation, a turning point in his path toward revolution. But if he were honest with himself, the only things that it had revealed were yet more questions.

There had never been one singular turning point at which he had decided, _yes, we need a revolution._ He hadn't simply woken up one morning and decided to turn Cybertron upside down. It had happened... with every decision, every action, every motion that he made. And the conclusion had come closer, like the turning of a wheel.

He didn't regret what had happened. And that was where the Autobots tended to stop listening, to throw their hands up and decide that he was just a bloodthirsty warmonger after all.

(This was fine by Megatron. It weeded out the ones who had given up trying to see the world in any terms but their own a long time ago.)

Regret, for one thing, was too weak a term. Megatron had absolutely meant to uproot Cybertronian society by the rotten core. That this had come at the cost of war was something that he had expected from the first time he had seen a mech executed for attempting to expose a miniscule part of that rot. Those whom had benefited from the status quo were made powerful by it. He had never expected them to give up that power quietly.

What he _hadn't_ meant to do was precipitate the reducing of the species to a few thousand individuals. And the refugee ships were coming with larger and larger gaps between them. How long was it to be before the flow dried up entirely?

Education was a tool. Megatron wondered, sometimes, what he could have done had it come to him a little sooner. How might the shape of their present been changed?

It was by his insistence that the Academy had been opened to the young Well-born mecha. From now on, all mecha would receive the gift of education regardless of the circumstances of their genesis.

He tipped his helm back and listened to the lively talk of the children inside the classroom. It was not an intellectually stimulating conversation by any means – someone wanted to know why organic creatures didn't have to get their filters changed.

“It's called poop,” said someone else. This was spoken with the air of a sage imparting great wisdom. “It's like... soot. I've been reading a book.”

Independent research – Megatron liked that in a mech. The subject of conversation, not so much. He'd met enough birds to have personal experience with it. Like soot, _hah._

He stood, banishing the last of the maudlin thoughts, and went home.

* * *

The biggest surprise of all was waiting in the berthroom when he got there.

It was a mean little cottage by the former Orion Pax' standards, he who had once been used to towering apartment blocks and shining vistas from the Hall of Records windows. By D-16's, it was a palace. It had more than one room – a luxury once unheard of – and included its own private washrack.

Megatron knew better than both. If it was a little bigger than other dwellings in the city, this was because the apartment block of which it was a part had been built to accommodate large frametypes. Counting the washrack, there were three rooms; an office, and a berthroom.

It had been just Optimus' at first. Megatron still had his quarters on board the _Nemesis_. Then Phoebus had come along, barely a glimmer in Optimus' spark chamber, and bit by bit Megatron's visits to Optimus' apartment had gone from not-so-discreet trysts to... something else.

He still wasn't quite sure what that something else was.

Optimus was sitting on the end of the berth, the thick thermosheet that kept them warm at night draped over his shoulders. He stared out the fifth-floor window with a faraway shiver in his EM field. It didn't feel like he was communing with the Matrix, so Megatron approached.

“The lights are on; is anybody home?”

Optimus blinked, refocused his optics. He sat motionless for a half-second, no doubt replaying the audial data to make sense of Megatron's words, then sighed.

“Perhaps if you are generous in your estimation. I have such a great deal to do.”

“How many were on the ship?” Megatron asked.

Optimus gave another sigh. “One hundred and twelve. Another sparkling, small and malnourished. Most have been referred to the medics for issues caused by lack of general maintenance.” He glanced at Megatron out of the corner of his optic. “Where were you this morning?”

Megatron lowered himself onto the berth. “Up on the Observatories. You had mentioned the possibility of a mine, and I have a great deal of experience in the trade. A preliminary exploration, shall we say.” He knelt behind Optimus, and tugged the Prime back to lay against his chassis.

Optimus stiffened at first, then relaxed into his hold. His EM field was tight with stress. “I see. And what were your conclusions?”

Megatron dipped his claws between the plating on Optimus' sides and ran the tips across his hidden neural net. “Don't bother with the Stellar Galleries unless you really need it; they've been stripped aeons ago and there's little more than surface indicators left. The eastern flank of the Lunar Observatory may be worth more detailed surveying. Do we have a geologist around?”

“There may have been one in the previous group of returnees.” Optimus shuttered his optics and pushed his chassis up into Megatron's hands, his plating fanning open. Megatron wondered if he knew how sensual the movement was. “Let me look at the registry when I go in to work.”

Megatron grunted. His servos worked their way down Optimus' sides, across his belly. He felt the wavelengths of Optimus' field tighten and flush with heat.

“After all this time,” he growled into Optimus' audial, “you might be forgiven for refusing to let me touch you like this.”

“I might,” said Optimus, his optics still shuttered. He found Megatron' thighs and began to pluck at the inner seams, coaxing the warlord to spread his legs apart. “But I gave birth to your child not so long ago. It's rather late to be having second thoughts.”

Megatron gave a rumbling laugh and took Optimus by the hips, pulling him into an awkward squat. He rubbed the insides of Optimus' thighs until the transformation seams widened and the telltale thick musk of internal lubricant reached his olfactory sensors. Optimus turned to face him, settling into a crouch over Megatron's thighs.

“I can hardly be unaware of all that you have done in the past,” he continued, looking up into Megatron's eyes. “I can neither overlook it nor forgive it, these being prerogatives that are not mine to act upon and which in any case cannot be fairly made, because of the length and breadth of the crimes which you have acted as and the billions of lives which they have touched. But neither can I act upon it, because by doing so I could not fail to reignite the war – which would surely then be the end of us as a people – and because, to be truly fair to the spirit of those crimes, I would then have to turn the punishmment upon myself.”

He gave Megatron a wry look, the corners of his optics crinkling. Optimus was less than half Megatron's age, but he carried the memories of an entire planet within his chest, and at times the weight of those ages shone out through his optics.

He continued. “You and I still have a lot to work through, in any case. I still have dreams which can't decide whether you want to kill me or put your spike in me. Sometimes they do both, and when I wake up with you on the berth beside me I forget reality and wonder if I am resurrected. Then I wonder, do you have the same problem?”

Megatron thought ferociously. “This is your way of deaing with that?” He made a loose gesture that took in the two of them, twined together on the berth. The dreams that Optimus described... he had had one or two. There were others, but he didn't think he was prepared to face them.

Not yet, at any rate. A wise gladiator did his homework before the championship battle.

Optimus smiled. The expression was tired, but content.

“That is part of it,” he said, and refused to elaborate any further.

“Hmph,” said Megatron. He slid his servo between them and palmed Optimus' valve panel. It was warm to the touch, and slid open under the touch. He rubbed his palm against the wet, swollen components. Optimus braced his servos on Megatron's shoulders and rutted against his hand.

There were things he could have said, but didn't. It would have brought home the fact that less than a vorn ago he would have killed the mech sitting here in front of him – and they both knew it.

Instead he grabbed hold of Optimus' hips and turned him back around so that he faced the window, then pushed him to his hands and knees. Optimus went pliant in his arms, dropping to his elbows and patiently bearing Megatron's attempts at rearranging him. His valve glistened between his legs, ready and eager.

Megatron's spike knocked against its cover. He gave it permission to open, taking it in hand as it pressurised. His other hand slid around Optimus' aft, gave it a stinging slap. Optimus jolted at the impact so close to his array, and looked back over his shoulder. Megatron rubbed the plating, lowered himself to press his mouth against the metal a show of conciliation. His leading finger pushed between Optimus' swollen outer folds and into his tight, wet valve.

Optimus gave a low, intense cry. His spark throbbed and his EM field flared against Megatron's, his frame pushing back instinctively against the penetration. Megatron withdrew the finger, and pressed back in with two. The stretch of Optimus' calipers was easy and the way they rippled around his fingers as if trying to draw him deeper was exhilarating. Megatron very much knew what that would feel like around his spike, and once was never enough.

He spread his fingers apart inside, stretching Optimus open, getting him used to being filled. Fluid glistened around the clenching entrance of his valve, dripping down onto Megatron's palm. Megatron collected the drips with his other hand and spread them onto his spike. Primus, he _wanted_. He thrust into his hand a couple of times, watching his third finger disappear into Optimus' valve. Transfluid welled from the injector tip, and flowed in a thin ribbon down the underside.

Optimus groaned and buried his face against the mesh berth cover. He rested his weight on one forearm, and the other servo slid up his chassis, finding his entrance. He rested his fingertips against the stretched rim for a moment, feeling Megatron's digits thrusting into him, then reached for Megatron's spike. “Please,” he groaned, “enough teasing.”

“I assure you, I was not teasing,” Megatron rumbled. He took Optimus' hand and put it on his spike, watching as the slim black fingers closed around it and gave a shaky stroke. His neural net fired, pressure sensors underneath the thin metal going wild. He wrapped his servo around Optimus' and pulled it to the broad blunt head, groaning at the sensation. Then he got to his knees, pulling his fingers out of Optimus. “If I was, I'd go get a ration of energon right now, instead of doing what you really want me to do. I can do that, if you'd prefer?” he added with a wicked smirk.

“No!” gasped Optimus. “Don't you dare.”

Megatron loomed over him, his hard spike bumping against the inner seam of Optimus' thigh. “You dare to give me orders?”

“In this I'll make an exception,” groaned Optimus. “I want it inside me. _Please_ , Megatron.”

Maybe it was the use of his name. Maybe it was the gentle plea, said in _that_ strained voice, or maybe it was the hot trail of lubricant dripping down Optimus' thigh.

Megatron held Optimus by the hip fairings, angled himself against the throbbing valve, and thrust in.

Optimus gave a deep, rumbling moan, and his hands clawed against the berth covers. His valve flexed and rippled around Megatron, adjusting to his girth. Electricity fired inside him, leaping from Megatron's charge nodes to his internal triggers. He arched his back, his chest dropping to the berth.

Megatron leaned forward over him, grinding the base of his spike array into Optimus' entrance. The heat and pressure was intense, his neural net all but ached, and it wasn't enough, he wanted _more._

He pulled out, thrust in again, as hard as he though Optimus could take. The pace was bruising, they'd both be walking a bit funny this afternoon, but it was worth it, the way Optimus writhed and gasped underneath him while his calipers rippled and dragged at his spike, the tang of electrical transfer between them at the deepest point of each thrust, tingling on the tip of Megatron's glossa.

Megatron groaned and pulled Optimus up off the berth, holding him hard against his own chassis and rolling his hips in shallow inward pushes. He held one arm across Optimus' chest, pinning them together, and the other wandered south, dipping between Optimus' legs, rubbing at his anterior node.

Optimus vented, and sunlight fell across his face. He turned away from the window, his helm fitting into the gap between Megatron's neck and collar armor. This put his sensitive audials within reach. Megatron took the tip of the nearer one into his mouth and sucked, scraping his dentae over the metal. At this point he lacked the coordination to do two things at once, and his thrusts faltered, until Optimus squirmed in his lap and he remembered that interesting things were happening at the other end as well.

He let go of Optimus, and they ended up on hands and knees again. Optimus clutched at his wrists for grounding, one against the berth for balance and the other on Optimus' belly. Megatron fancied that it was still a little round, and wondered what it would take to convince Optimus to let him put another sparkling in there.

He overloaded suddenly, shaking and pressing himself down over Optimus' back. Under him, Optimus moaned at the electrical surge, the rush of transfluid into him. It didn't seem as though he'd climaxed at first, but then he went strutless and Megatron only just managed to keep from crashing down on top of him.

They settled into a pile of creaking machinery, heatwaves dancing on top of them. Vents came out at steam, and showed up ghostly white in the sunlight.

Megatron curled his arm around Optimus' shoulder, and pulled him back against his chest. The Last Prime gave a spent sigh, his servo coming up to rest on Megatron's forearm where the cannon had once been mounted.

It was not what Megatron had ever expected out of life, but it was comfortable.

 


End file.
